


The Marks of My Love

by CadenceOfKings



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, M/M, Marks AU, Maybe angst, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Use, quotes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-15 23:06:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9262682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CadenceOfKings/pseuds/CadenceOfKings
Summary: An AU where Marks (tattoo-like pictures) appear on your skin due to life events or strong feelings. A series of short stories about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes' Marks.





	1. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at 221B's occupants as children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of alcohol abuse as well as physical abuse in this chapter. Please leave feedback, and enjoy!

"What is that, mummy?" John Hamish Watson asked as his small, stubby fingers traced over his mother's forearm where a sleeping dog (a Doberman, he would later be told) was imprinted into the skin.

"That's a Mark, Johnny." She smiled as he looked up at her with excited bright blue eyes.

"What's a Mark?" He would ask this question with the same fascinated tone and a content smile on his face almost every day. She couldn't recall how many times she'd told this story to her son, but it wouldn't matter; no matter how many times she told him, he would ask again, knowing that she would tell him as many times as he asked her to.

"A Mark is a picture that shows important things and huge events in your life; things that affect you in a big, big way. Some people have a bunch of Marks because everything is important to them, and some people only have a couple of them. You know, I got this one," She pointed to her forearm where the sleeping Doberman was Marked, "when I was just a little older than you are now. That dog was very important to me, and played a big part in my life.

"I want a lot of Marks when I get older! Harry, I'm gonna have a bunch of Marks!" John ran off to find his older sister, who almost always occupied her room. His mother heard a car door slamming shut outside, and her gaze turned toward the window. Her husband had finally come home, a whiskey bottle in his hand. Harry ushered John into her room with a small nod at her mother. It would be a night of drunken rage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

William Sherlock Scott Holmes stood in front of the body length mirror in his room, running his eyes all over his pale body.  _No Marks yet_ , he thought. Was it because he was so different from everyone else? Was he not good enough for the Marks that had already found a place on the skin of the other children?

Sherlock's door opened and Mycroft slipped as gracefully into the room as he could with his awkwardly tall and lanky frame, raising a brow at his younger brother and resisting the urge to chuckle at the periodic table underwear. Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock spoke first.

"Why don't I have a Mark yet?"

Sherlock turned his face to Mycroft, a sad look resting there. The young boy spent many hours running around their large property, desperately trying to find something that would cause a Mark to appear. He would get in trouble constantly just to find that one thing that would make him happy. Mycroft only had a few small Marks himself, but Marks were Marks, and Sherlock wanted them.

"I'm not sure, brother-mine. Perhaps you haven't found anything important enough to Mark your skin. You are a Holmes, after all."

Sherlock nodded with a distant look in his eyes, not believing his older brother. He turned back to the mirror, focusing on Mycroft using the reflection. 

"Is Father still sleeping with the gardener?"

Mycroft stumbled slightly at the question. He knew he shouldn't have taught the younger boy about deduction, but Mycroft had been bored, and he figured it would be something that would help his younger brother later on in life. He hadn't expected the boy to use the skills so soon. He cursed himself now. What was Mycroft supposed to respond with?

With a sigh, he chose to say, " _That_  is none of our business." Mycroft turned and left Sherlock's room. He closed the door gently, leaving the child alone. Sherlock looked back toward the mirror. He spent the night watching, losing hope for every moment that a Mark didn't appear.


	2. Study In Pink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Mark from their first case together.

If you had come up to John and told him that he would be sharing a flat with a man who knew about his entire life in a glance, he would have laughed and called you mad. Now, as he raced down the hallways of a silent college building in the middle of the night searching for a strange cabbie and the even stranger man, he called himself mad for caring so much.

"Sherlock!" John yelled, looking through the windows on the door of every classroom. John open door after door, and it felt like a lifetime before he was able to find Sherlock. John looked out of the window of a classroom into the building across from the one he himself was in now. The cabbie was standing in front of the window, his back facing John. Looking over the cabbie's shoulder, John saw Sherlock clearly, a pill raised to his lips.

John froze, heartbeat loud in his ears. His blood ran cold. "Sherlock!" He screamed, hoping that by some miracle, Sherlock would drop the pill and run. He knew immediately that he shouldn't just wish for things; he had to _do_ something. He stopped for only a moment before his hand quickly found the gun in the back of his waistband, then he aimed for the cabbie. He took a deep breath, released it, and pulled the trigger. He watched long enough to see the cabbie fall to the floor and Sherlock flinch in his spot before John himself dropped to the floor to avoid being seen, crossing his arms against his chest so he wouldn't leave fingerprints. He felt a tingling sensation on the inside of his left arm, right above the crease of his elbow, and he knew that when he got home, there would be a new Mark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock watched his new flatmate from the kitchen, pretending to examine the many chemicals that scattered the island. 'This man,' Sherlock thought as he idly played with the focus of his microscope. 'This man has _killed_ for me though he's only known me for a few hours.' He grinned to himself. A loyal soul was a valuable one.

Sherlock remembered walking away from the crime scene with John, giggling as if they were both schoolgirls. He also remembered the weird feeling on his left arm as, sitting in the back of the ambulance, he came to the realization that it had been _John_ that had shot the cabbie and had most likely saved his life. Sherlock dismissed the feeling until now. What had it come from?

Sherlock stood suddenly, stool scraping against the kitchen floor, making John start. Without a word, Sherlock walked calmly to his room. As soon as the door to his bedroom was shut though, Sherlock's composure was lost, and he quickly removed his suit jacket and rushed to roll up the sleeve of his shirt. The breath was knocked out of him at the sight.

There, where he had felt the pleasant tingling in his arm, was a Mark. Just above the crook of his elbow rested a Sig Sauer L106A1 and, in its shadow, a single pill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking about throwing in some Mystrade later cause I have some ideas and I'm pumped as hell, my dudes.


	3. Safety From Hounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Baskerville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing after periods of time because my writing style changes with my mood and I just feel like shit all the way around. If you have any advice or questions, feel free to comment!!

The hounds had terrified him, chilled him to his very bones, rocked his soul in a way indescribable. He had no idea why they frightened him so much; he had seen worse in his lifetime. Of course he had seen worse. He'd been a soldier. He'd gone through hell of the worst degree and yet, he believed he would rather have been back on Afghanistan than anywhere near Baskerville ever again.

A part of his trust for Sherlock had shattered that day.

Sherlock had known all along. Yet he'd let John play the fool while Sherlock himself had played the king. So much anger had burst through John hot tears spilled over his cheeks. His chest felt tighter than a drum and he bit so hard at the inside of his cheek that he tasted blood.

When they were in the cab on the way back to the flat, he felt a shock directly above his heart. It definitely wasn't the soft, pleasurable tingle of a Mark. It was painful enough that the force of it made him wince and hiss out a breath, enough pain that he didn't notice when Sherlock's hand flew to his own chest and flinch. Sherlock, pressed against the door of the cab, glanced at John but turned to look back out of the window as John glared at him.

John spent the rest of the ride clenching and unclenching his fist. Occasionally he rubbed at the flesh over his heart. He knew there would be a Mark there. He also knew that he didn't want to see it. It was all still too fresh in his mind; the barking, scratching, howling, the horror he felt. He did his best to forget about the Mark, but he couldn't help wondering about it.

Not all people earned their Marks through good experiences. Nightmare Marks were, most of the time, evidence of a major trauma. They usually appeared on children and adults whose minds were at a fragile stage or were easily affected by bad situations. The feeling when you were Marked by one wasn't gentle like a regular Mark, which is why John was thankful that e only had a few. But what made this Nightmare Mark the worst was that it was caused by someone he trusted his life with.

John was terrified to close his eyes as the cab drove on. The headlights contrasting with the dark of night blinded him, but still he kept his eyes open. When he blinked it was quick. He was so tired, damn near to passing out, but he absolutely _could not sleep._

Sherlock kept tapping a rhythm on the seat between them. It sounded familiar to John, but there was still so much anger and fear that he couldn't quite focus on what it was. He let his head drop into his hands. It would take so very long for him to recover from this night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He figured John wouldn't have minded. If it meant saving someone, John usually volunteered to be Sherlock's guinea pig. The plan wouldn't have worked of John had known. Surely he must understand that! But John wouldn't even stop to listen to Sherlock.

When Sherlock had started to explain, John just raised his eyes to him; they were cold, filled with nothing but hurt and anger. How was Sherlock supposed to know it would end up like that? It wasn't for some sick pleasure that Sherlock had done what he did. Sherlock's chest constricted when John wouldn't even look his way in the cab.

It hurt his head and it hurt his heart. John, who was so understanding and patient and kind, was now acting as if he'd never spoken to Sherlock, never even risked his life for the man. _Damn it, John,_ Sherlock pleaded silently. _Just listen to me, let me explain to you why I did the things I did._

They hadn't been in the cab for long when he felt a jolt of electricity almost in the middle of his chest and at the same time, John twitched and made a sound of pain. Sherlock's head spun to face him, but John only stared with a steely gaze. The coldness in his eyes broke Sherlock inside. He felt the pang of hurt and distrust from John even above the shock. He looked back out of the window and didn't turn to John for the rest of the ride home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, eyes staring at the floor. He listened as Sherlock played his violin. Rough and wicked sounds echoed through the flat. As much as John hated to admit it, he wanted to hear Sherlock's actual playing. He wanted to hear the melodious sounds that he knew Sherlock was capable of. He played beautifully when he thought John has fallen asleep or on the nights when he heard the sounds John made during nightmares.

He hated to admit this because he wanted to stay angry at Sherlock. How could he be angry when he thought about how Sherlock cared enough to play just for him, to soothe his fears during the night?

He had to force himself to remember that he was pissed, beyond livid at what his flatmate had done. But... it had been for a case. John should know by now that Sherlock would do anything to solve a case.

John sighed and stood from the bed. His shaky hands smoothed down the covers where he had been sitting. John paced at the foot of his bed for a few moments, only stopping when he heard Sherlock pause from playing.

John looked up from the floor at his wardrobe. After a but of contemplation, he opened up the doors of the wardrobe and knelt to grab the box that sat at the bottom, covered by jackets and shirts that John hadn't bothered to hang up. John took the box and sat down on the bed again. He gently brushed away the thin layer of dust from the lid to reveal _John H. Watson_ , jagged scratches in the wood.

He opened the box, memories flooding back to him as his eyes landed on the fabric of his folded army uniform. The hell he had been put through during his time in the army.

God, how he missed it.

He pulled the uniform from the box and held it up to the light. From the fold of the uniform, a chain slipped out onto the floor. John set the uniform on the bed next to him and scooped up the necklace, the metal tags clinking together. His thumb traced the indents on the tag. The sound of the metal accompanied a good number of his nightmares, but it was the one reassuring sound amidst the terror.

John's fingers tightened on the tags; he still hadn't seen his new Mark; the Nightmare Mark. He shoved the tags into the pocket of his jeans and hurried to put his uniform away in the box and into the wardrobe. He took the longest strides he could manage to the bathroom and ignored the knowing look on Sherlock's face before he all but slammed the bathroom door. After yanking the hem of his shirt over his head and laying it over the sink, his hand splayed above his heart where he had felt the pang.

Bright glowing eyes of a hellish hound met his gaze through his fingers in the mirror. It wasn't so much a memory of the hound itself, but of the betrayal he had felt. He laughed at his reflection in the mirror, but it held no humor.

That goddamned detective, his work so precious that he would willingly put John through that. John had done everything that man asked of him, followed him without very much question.

But John had, from the start, been entranced by Sherlock. He had told Sherlock in every way possible how amazing it was when he solved the most complicated problems in such little time, and when he solved a murder case without so much as a blink, and how he knew your life story in just a glance. The way Sherlock carried himself sent off waves of arrogance, but John knew what Sherlock was doing; Harry had tried to do the same thing when they were growing up.

Harry had been self-conscious of herself and of her family growing up. To make up for that, she acted as if she didn't care and as if she already knew everything anyone could possibly know. Only John knew that she had cried herself to sleep almost every night. To see someone like Sherlock acting this way was what made John so quick to shower him in praise.

"John." Sherlock's baritone voice seemed hesitant through the door. John's head turned to it so quickly he thought he gave himself whiplash. It was rare when Sherlock had even a hint of hesitancy to himself.

"Hmm?" John's eyes drilled holes into the door. _Remember, John; angry._

"John, I..." There was a sigh from the other side of the door. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for it to go like that."

John looked back at the mirror. His hair was a mess and there were dark circles under his eyes. Even the way he stood showed how exhausted he was. He set his hands on the edge of the sink and leaned against it. "Well, it did go like that." John couldn't stop the tremor in his voice.

Suddenly, the door swung open and John jumped back to avoid being hit by it. He rushed to grab his shirt off of the sink and held it against his chest. Sherlock stood still in the doorway, his eyes bouncing back and forth between John's face and chest.

"Let me see," Sherlock murmured. John shook his head.

"No, Sherlock, this is... this is personal. I can't-"

"It may be personal, but it concerns _me_. It's all my fault. Please."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock could see John gritting his teeth I'm thought. John stood facing the mirror, his shirt pressed tightly against his chest as of it were an armor of sorts. There was a tick in John's jaw. His eyes closed briefly as he exhaled.

"John, please." Sherlock's voice cracked, but he couldn't bring himself to care. John's gaze turned sharply to him. The anger was still there in his eyes but it was subdued by something Sherlock couldn't place.

"Why do you care? Why now, of all times, do you care?" John turned to face Sherlock, the muscles in his arm jumping as they tensed in irritation.

"I-" _'I always cared, from the start to the end.' Tell him that, you big idiot._ "I-" _can't do it._ "Just let me help. I'll do my best, I swear it. Let me see."

John shook his head again. "You can't fix this, Sherlock." His free hand came up to run through his hair, mussing it up even more than before.

"I know," Sherlock agreed. He took a step closer to John and set his hand on top of John's, the one that held the shirt to his chest. "But I can make up for it. Let me make up for this."

John closed his eyes. Sherlock could feel the shaking of the soldier's hands. "I have one now," Sherlock whispered. John's eyebrows furrowed as he blinked up at Sherlock.

"Have one what?"

"A Nightmare Mark. I have one now." Sherlock'a hand moved from John's to go to his own chest over the Mark. "Right where yours is."

"Well then, I guess this is where you show me yours and I'll show you mine, huh?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

John had been surprised when Sherlock said he gained a Nightmare Mark. He hadn't been as affected by the hounds as John, so what had made him gain one? But those thoughts were quickly wiped away as Sherlock began to unbutton his shirt. John had to avert his gaze as he clenched his teeth.

Flatmate. That's it, all he was. John wasn't in a crisis about his sexual preferences, but he had to remain aware that Sherlock was, _obviously_ , married to his work. That doesn't mean it wasn't difficult to keep from thinking about it. It was especially difficult considering with each button Sherlock undid, more skin was visible to John. But then there was a flash of color, drawing John's gaze straight to Sherlock's chest.

A pair of eyes, a dark sapphire blue and unmistakably John's, was imprinted into the skin. No emotion showed in them except a coldness that sent a wave of hurt and shame through John. Sherlock had been so affected by John's anger that it left a Nightmare Mark.

"Sherlock, my God," John breathed out. "I'm-"

"Don't apologize. That won't help anything. And I deserved it. It was my fault that it happened and I take full responsibility for it, just as I'm taking full responsibility for the one that I put on you." Sherlock's curls bounced slightly as he shook his head, buttoning the silken shirt up. "Now what was it that you said? 'Show me yours and show you mine'?" The corner of his mouth turned up as he spoke.

John blinked in response. Sherlock gave a fake-but-encouraging smile, and that was all John needed before he let the shirt fall from his grasp. When Sherlock saw the Mark though, the smile was replaced with a frown.

"Come here."

John tilted his head in confusion. "What, why?"

"John, come here," Sherlock repeated with force. There was a tone of desperation that made John step forward immediately.

Without the slightest bit of warning, Sherlock pulled John into a hug, one arm around John's shoulders and the other hand cupping the back of John's neck as John rested his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. It was all John could do not to begin sobbing. He grabbed onto the silk material of Sherlock'a shirt and held on tightly. They stood like that for what felt like a lifetime, no one saying a word. And it was the safest John had ever felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohmygod, the longest chapter I've written??? Probably. I hate myself for it because I could've done so much better. Feedback appreciated (and also fanart but yknow)


End file.
